POEM: Quake

a spoon rhythmically tinks against a porcelain cup

the cup rotates in digital jerks in the saucer divot, like the clockwork gears of a spastic universe

only the sugar packets are silent

well, not silent, but you’d have to turn down the volume on the tinking cup

not to mention the crumbling buildings — which sound like wheelbarrow loads of bricks being dumped onto piles of bricks– clapping against, and sliding over, each other

if you could turn off all that, plus the thrum of your own neck pulse

then you’d hear the faint maracas, granules against the paper tube

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